


Tell Me No Lies

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, Immigration & Emigration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 03:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: In which River and the Doctor interview for immigration benefits on the moon.





	Tell Me No Lies

**Author's Note:**

> While this is loosely based on actual USA procedures, this fic is no substitute for legal advice. Consult a licensed attorney.

“Doctors River Song and John Smith? This way, please?” The greying man introduced himself as Officer McAllister. The Doctor, considering himself something of a connoisseur, appraised the corridor critically as they walked toward McAllister’s office. Bit drab, he decided. Boring white walls and fluorescents without the piquancy of the bright, sterile whiteness of a medical setting.

“Now I’m going to place you under oath,” McAllister announced, and did so. “We’ll start by going over your application...and addenda.” He turned to River. “Professor River Song, also known as Melody Pond, also known as Mels Zucker, also known as Melody Malone.” She nodded, meeting his skeptical eye. “Doctor John Smith, also known as John Song, James McCrimmon,” he raised an eyebrow as he turned to the first addendum, “the Oncoming Storm, the Predator, the Doctor, and the Valeyard?” The Doctor bobbed his head earnestly in reply.

McAllister turned back to River. “Parents Rory Arthur and Amelia Jessica Williams, born 1989, died...1988?”

“It’s a bit wibbly wobbly timey wimey,” the Doctor clarified. If you can call it that.

The immigration officer noted this in red ink, mouthing along in disbelief. “Date of marriage,” he pressed on, “April 22, 2011.” He flipped back to another addendum. “And at six other places.”

“Guess we did get carried aw--hang on, six? Did we miss one?” River counts on her fingers. “Never mind: I always count Philodias twice because there were two of you.”

McAllister’s pen scratched this new information onto the paper. “Doctor Smith, you have a lengthy history of imprisonment. Never more than a few days at each stay. Each time, you list the offense as “overthrowing a tyrannical regime,” but the charge is never pressed?”

The Doctor beams. “I always get my strongman.”

“I...see.” Another annotation in red. “And...under “purpose of prior visits to Moon” you list “fighting cybermen, fighting plasmavore, fighting cybermen, and...sightseeing?”

“Neil Armstrong! Personal friend. Lent me a foot in a time of need.”

“...a hand, surely?”

“Definitely a foot,” River confirms.

If it were possible, the officer’s eyebrows would have raised further. “At any rate, these interviews often come down to pieces of paper. Do you have any documents reflecting your social and economic ties?”

“I think you’ll find everything is in order,” the Doctor says confidently, whipping out a sheaf of psychic paper. “Lease. Bank account. Hoverbike title. Credit card. Christmas cards from Gertrude Stein and His Holiness the Pope.”

“That’s...quite impressive. If you don’t mind, I just need to make a copy for your file.” River and the Doctor shared a horrified look as he fed the psychic paper into his copier. How was something designed to show the viewer what it wanted or expected to see going to fool a copier? McAllister sighed as the paper came out on the other end. “I’ll have to talk to Hargreaves in IT; it’s just pictures of bare buttocks.” He crumpled the faulty photocopies and returned the originals. “I’ll just issue a request for evidence. Now, any photos of the two of you?”

“Scads,” River says. “But these are the only ones appropriate for mixed company.”

“River!” the Doctor cries, scandalized.

McAllister’s confusion fast becomes palpable as he skims the sheets of snuggling couples, seemingly no two the same. “Pray tell, who are these people?”

“Let me see, these four are him,” she says, tapping a gangly bloke in pinstripes, another with shaggy hair and a velvet jacket, another in plaid pants and a ratty jumper, and a blonde woman curled up in a hoodie.

“And these three are her,” he adds, pointing out a black woman in dreadlocks, a redhead with a pixie cut and a strong jaw, and a tall girl built like a wrestler.

“Wait, who--” then, still in unison, “spoilers!”

McAllister slumps back into his chair. “I think that does it for this interview. Thank you both. No decision for today.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you keeping score at home, the people in the pictures are Eight, Ten, Twelve, Thirteen, Mels, and two unspecified post-Library regenerations for River.


End file.
